


As Yet Untitled

by Azraelsmusicbox



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Child Abuse, Child Murder, Crime Scenes, Fuck Or Die, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Physical Abuse, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5033293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azraelsmusicbox/pseuds/Azraelsmusicbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reid is kidnapped by a ruthless gang who have been watching the BAU. He is beaten, tortured and humiliated for days on end, while the rest of the team try desperately to find him. A lead has Hotch and Morgan finding the building where he is being held, but they have no idea of the horror they are in store for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written in a long time, so I hope I'm not too rusty. This is not beta'd, so my apologies if there are any mistakes.This is only a small first part, with more to follow soon.
> 
> Please be aware of the warnings as this story deals with some potentially triggering subjects, such as rape, torture, thoughts of self-harm and suicide, and descriptions of a case involving the abuse and murder of children. Please take care.

_It's been three days. Three days and it still feels like someone's flaying me with a knife._

Another dawn breaks grey and cloudy over quiet, nearly deserted streets, air thick and heavy with the promise of rain. Reid lays sprawled over his sofa, ashen-pale and eyes gritty with exhaustion, but no matter how hard he tries to calm his racing, charging, tumbling thoughts, sleep continues to evade him. He can’t push the last case from his mind, the images are too bright and so very, very vivid; a sweet-smiling and wholly unrepentant killer who was murdering children, tiny bodies stacked carelessly in the back of an old, dusty warehouse, empty, glassy eyes and bruised, broken skin a testament to the horrors they had endured.

_Too late, we were too late._

Reid pushes the palms of his hands against his closed lids until his head aches, and pictures for the umpteenth the tear stained, grief stricken face of one of the mothers he interviewed. Leah Thomason, who’s three year old had been kidnapped from his room while she was sleeping. Michael was a happy, curious child, she had told him and Prentiss on the morning of his disappearance, while she sat shaking on the floor of his room, clutching the stuffed rabbit she’d bought him for his last birthday. A happy, curious child, who loved to sing, and enjoyed finger painting, and wanted to be a vet when he grew up. 

_I promised her. I promised her we’d get her baby back safely._

He can hear her crying still, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get it out of his head. He’ll always remember that raw, desperate scream when she learnt of Michael’s death, when she found out she was being called to the police station _not_ to bundle her rescued son safely in to her arms, and take him home to love and cherish and protect him, but instead to identify the mutilated, violated remains of her child’s body.

There’s a scream of his own building in his throat. He keeps his teeth clenched against it, chest burning as his breathing stutters and hitches. It’s been a long time since a case has hurt this badly, since he’s felt this kind of bone-deep, overwhelming despair. He's not sure why this case has rendered him so awfully, terribly, inconsolably upset. Maybe it was the state they had found the children's bodies in, knowing the ghastly ways in which they had died. Maybe it was the ever present, but ever growing thought that no matter how quickly the team got there, it was never soon enough. Maybe it was knowing that it will never stop, murderers will never stop murdering, and he has already seen so much death, he's not sure how much more he can stand. Maybe it was just one too many times of having to see a devoted family member receiving the worst news of their life.

_(I promised her.)_

He stays laid out on his sofa, unmoving but to breathe for three more hours, until he cannot stand the quiet any longer. He has no work today, not for two more days, according to the orders from Hotch. They all needed a break, he’d said, after the terrible things they’d seen. He can’t focus enough to read, and when he'd tried his eyes skimmed unseeingly over the page, taking nothing in. He can’t sleep, can’t settle, can’t get even a moments respite. 

It’s past ten when he decides to get out of his flat in an attempt to get out of his head, dragging himself up from his tear-sodden cushions, and wobbling to his feet. He can’t stay in here, his thoughts looping round and round and round, completely unstoppable. It’s raining when he steps outside, heavy, fat droplets splashing in to his hair and soaking in to his clothes, but he doesn’t turn back. 

_Maybe it will help to wash away some of the pain._

He wanders the wet and still quiet streets aimlessly for a few minutes, unsure where he wishes to go, unsure what will help him feel less awful. He considers getting breakfast or going shopping to buy more food. He really needs to, he has nothing in his flat apart from various condiments and one dusty tin of baked beans tucked away in the back of his cupboard, but the thought of even trying to eat makes him feel sick. The rain falls harder as he keeps walking, and with nothing but a flimsy jacket on he soon feels the wet chill creeping in to his skin. 

He’s starting to shiver when he eventually decides on getting a coffee, fingers starting to go numb. He takes a side street, heading towards a little café he knows, where the coffee is strong, and the staff won’t ask about his disheveled appearance, or his bloodshot eyes. He doesn’t see the car pulling smoothly up beside him, he is only suddenly aware of hands digging in to his arms, and a cloth being slapped over his mouth. He tries to cry out in shock, but before he can get the air in he feels the sharp bite of a needle in his arm, and the world tilts alarmingly. He struggles against the hands gripping him, fighting and flailing, but when he helplessly tries to hitch in another lung full of air through the stifling cloth he feels his legs go from under him, and everything starts to darken around him. The last thing he’s truly aware of is being hoisted in to the car, hands rough on him as he is shoved face first in to the back seat, and the low rumble of the engine as the car starts moving. 

He loses consciousness before they even turn the first corner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, left kudos and commented on the first part. I really hope you like this part. Again it's only a short update, mostly setting the scene, with more action coming in the next bit.

He wakes up cold, and with no knowledge of what's happened. He feels very strange, sick and dizzy, his thoughts fuzzy and disjointed. He tries to open his eyes, but the lids feel desperately heavy, and when he tries to move, his muscles feel weak and uncooperative. 

_What’s happened to me? What…._

His brain takes a few seconds to catch up, but when it does he feels a dreadful, sweeping rush of panic. _Bruising hands on his body, the sting of the needle piercing through his skin, a hole of blackness swallowing him up as he was dragged from the street._ He tires again to open his eyes and this time succeeds in prying his lids open slightly, bleary vision taking in a dirty, beige coloured wall, and the dark, threadbare carpet upon which he is laid.

He struggles to keep his breathing steady, as he attempts again to move, limbs still numb and leaden. He can hear the faint sounds of talking, muffled and indistinct, coming he presumes from another room, and the deep beat of a song he doesn’t recognise. He tries again to force his lax muscles to work, and this time he manages a stuttery jerk of his right arm, fingers convulsively digging in to the stale smelling carpet.

“Oh good. I see you’re awake, Dr Reid.”

The voice is male, smooth and purposefully bland, and Reid feels like his heart is going to claw it’s way out of his chest at the sound of it. He tries to roll his head to see the speaker, but succeeds only in burying his nose a little further in to the carpet.

“I imagine that you’re feeling a little disorientated, and the drugs are going to take a while yet to wear off. That’s okay, we have all the time in the world. You get your bearings back, and when you’re ready, I want you to sit up and talk with me.”

He sounds almost pleasant, entirely composed and completely devoid of any real emotion. There’s anger, no aggression, nothing to suggest violence, or danger. His voice is a soft, smooth wall of nothingness, and for some reason it's so much worse than if he had been screaming. 

_No way of knowing what he wants yet. Calm your breathing down and focus. You’re only going to get out of this if you’re thinking straight._

He’s unsure how long it takes for the drug to wear off enough of him to move properly. The whole time he can hear that faint, ongoing chatter from the other room, and he can practically feel eyes on his back, watching him closely. When he finally feels he can move enough to turn and see the man, it is surprisingly difficult to force himself the face him. A small, childish part of his brain wonders if he just refuses to acknowledge the man, maybe this will all go away. Just like when he was six and thought if he could ignore all the shouting and crying between his parents then maybe everything would go back to being okay again. Or when he was a fully grown adult, spiked up higher than a kite with dilauded singing in his veins, and thought that if he could ignore that sad, questioning stares of his friends everything would be _just fine._

_It never works. Never, ever works……_

When he eventually works up the courage to face the man, most of the feeling has returned to his limbs, and he can feel the beginning ache in his joints from being laid out on the hard floor for so long. His movements are stiff, and uncoordinated as he gets his hands under himself, and the effort of pushing himself on to his knees leaves him feeling weak, his vision greying out as he fights off a wave of dizziness. When he moves to try and tuck his knees under himself one of his legs comes up short, and a heavy, metallic jangle directs his vision to the thick chain cuffing his foot to a metal loop protruding from the wall. He fights don another wave of despair as he turns his head to look at his gentle-voiced captor, and sees a small, pale man, with dark brown hair, and worryingly empty eyes.

“Very good, thank you Dr Reid. I’m guessing you’d like to know why you’re here?”

His voice is still infuriatingly free of any real inflection, and by comparison Reid’s own voice sounds rough to his own ears, and it trembles far more than he wishes it would when he squeezes out a single “Yes.”

“You’re here because I require information.”

“Information about what?” Reid forces out, his voice cracking. He can feel pressure rising in his chest, the sharp pull of increasing panic that leaves his skin tingling.

“About you, and about your team.” Comes the soft reply.

“I’m not telling you anything.” he murmurs, wasting no time to think about it. No good can come of telling this eerily quiet man anything, of that he can be sure.

The man stares placidly on at him. “Of course,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to start talking right away, but I believe that in time you’ll come to tell me everything I want to know. It’s why I picked you, you see, you’re quite clearly the weak link of the team. I think we can get you talking pretty soon.”

That stings, more that Reid would like to admit, but it rapidly becomes buried under his mounting apprehension over what may happen to him in order to try and get him to talk, and the knowledge that right now he has no way out. Another thought occurs, slower than it should have, and Reid feels his stomach tighten sickeningly.

_He’s making no effort to obscure his face or voice. He’s not at all worried about you being able to identify him. You know what this means._

“I’m not telling you anything.” he says again, trying to force his voice from shaking.

The man nods at him, and for the first time he shows a small, almost wistful smile. “We’ll see, Dr Reid.”

The man turns then, striding to the door behind him, pulling it open with a low creak, and the soft buzz of voices from behind it dies abruptly. In a moment, the room is filled with four other men, all of them far larger that the slight, quiet man, who now turns to Reid with that same small smile on his face.

“I’m going to leave you to get acquainted with these gentlemen. I’ll be back in a couple of days to speak with you again, hopefully you'll feel a little more cooperative by then.” and with that he leaves, pulling the door quietly shut behind him.

The air in the room is deathly still for a few achingly long seconds, no movements, no words, just four sets of eyes locked on him, and Reid barely feels like he’s breathing. It is broken when one of them steps forwards, kneeling down until he is at eye level with Reid, who takes in dark eyes, rough stubble and yellowing teeth.

“I think we’re going to have a lot of fun with you, Dr Reid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. More to come soon.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly I'd just like to say such a huge thank you to everyone who commented on the last part. Thank you for your kind, and encouraging words. Thank you to everyone that left kudos and bookmarked the story. It really means a lot to me. Secondly I'm so sorry for the insane delay in updating. My life underwent some rather massive and not altogether pleasant changes, and I've been trying to get myself back on an even keel. To anyone kind enough to still be paying attention to this story, I hope this chapter does not disappoint, and I intend to have more up by the end of the week.

_Don’t panic._

For a few moments to guy just stares at him, a sour smirk playing around the corners of his lips, and Reid gets the distinct impression that he is being sized up. The man’s gaze travels over him, from throat, to ribs, to hips to tightly shackled ankle, and Reid has to fight the way he wants to curve in on himself, the way he wants to cringe away when the man speaks to him.

“Let’s start, shall we?” he says, the smirk stretching in to an unkind smile. “I’m going to unfasten your ankle. I’d tell not to try anything, but….. well you’d hardly be a threat even if you did.”

Reid ignores the barb and casts a quick glance over the small room and the other three men, frantically searching for any way to make an escape. It doesn’t look good. Even if he could somehow get around the hulking man currently crouched in front of him, there is no clear path to the door and he doesn’t doubt the he’d get more than three feet before being accosted by one of the other’s. His head still feels fuzzy from whatever they shot him up with, limbs still shaky and weak, and even if they were to let him run, he doubts that he’d get very far. The guy is right, in his current state, he is of no threat to anyone.

_Don’t panic._

The man leans in, pulling a key from the pocket of his grubby jeans. He uses his free hand to grip tightly at Reid’s ankle while he unlocks the cuff, his fingers just as restricting as the steel, and Reid feels his muscles tensing in an instinctive urge to pull away from the man’s unpleasant touch.

As soon as he’s free from the confines of the shackle, the man uses his grip to tug Reid forwards, dragging him away from the wall and towards the centre of the room. Reid struggles without thinking, alarm lancing through his chest and he hears the men laugh as they form a circle around him. 

_Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don't......_

Once he is surrounded, the man releases the grip he has on his ankle, only to fist his hand in Reid’s hair and yank him painfully upright. Reid’s legs tremble as he is forced to stand, knees threatening to give way and send him plummeting back to the ground when the man lets go of his hair. He manages to keep his balance, only just, and he can feel himself shaking as the man leans in, stale breath gusting across Reid’s cheek as he crowds in on him.

“Now Dr Reid, I want you to strip.”

For a second it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, and the ground seems to tilt worryingly beneath his unsteady feet.

_Oh. Oh God._

“No.” He says, barely aware of the way his voice cracks.

The man actually laughs, a loud, hateful sound, and the others join in, braying around him like a pack of hyenas. It’s becoming clear that he is the ring leader of the group.

“No?” He sneers, laughing still. “You don’t get to tell us ‘no’ Dr. Reid, and I promise I’ll make you regret it every time you try. Now, I hate to repeat myself, but I’ll tell you one more time. Take your clothes off.”

“No!” Reid protests again, louder and sharper than before and the man’s face darkens like thunder.

The first blow catches Reid shamefully unaware. The man lashes out like a snake, his fist colliding sharply with Reid’s cheekbone, rocking his head back and sending him crashing to the ground. He barely has time to suck a breath in before he is hauled back to his feet, one of the other men gripping him tightly beneath his armpits and forcing him to stay upright. Another punch mashes his lip against his teeth, and Reid tastes the thick, metallic tang of blood, as yet another blow lands against his chin.

The man stops at that point, face still stormy, and shares a glance between the other’s, some unspoken conversation taking place between them. Reid’s jaw and cheek throb, and he can feel blood starting to trickle down his chin from his split lip. After a moments silence the man holding Reid up shifts to encircle his arms tightly around Reid’s chest, and another of the men catches hold of his wrist, forcibly extending Reid’s right arm and uncurling his fingers from where they have made a tense fist.

“I don’t like it when people disobey me.’ says the leader. “I suggest that you remember this.”

The man holding his arm makes a quick movement, wrenching one of Reid’s finger’s back, and Reid can’t stifle the cry he makes when he feels the bone snap. He writhes, trying to struggle away, trying to drag his hand back to himself, but the men hold fast and he all but screams when a second finger is violently twisted and broken.

It hurts more than he thought possible, pain bleeding in to his palm and radiating towards his wrist. The man takes hold of his ring finger, and Reid can feel the tears burning down his cheeks as it is bent backwards, the pressure building unbearably until the bone cracks and gives way, and he shrieks again when his little finger is subjected to the same fate.

When they break his thumb he thinks for a moment that he might pass out again. His stomach rolls, and everything darkens around him. The men holding him are the only reason he’s still on his feet, his body shuddering as he tries to get his breathing under control.

The leader leans in close again, one hand coming up to press tightly over Reid’s mouth, smearing blood against his palm. 

“Now,” he murmurs, voice rock-steady and utterly without mercy. “I’m going to give you one more chance to listen to me. Strip, now, or I’ll go get a knife from the kitchen, I’ll take the fingers off the other hand and you will still end up naked at the end of it. Do you understand me?”

_He means it. You know he means it. He won’t hesitate to mutilate you and smile while he’s doing it._

Reid nods, he can’t not, and the man removes the hand from his mouth. The other’s let him go abruptly, and he crumbles to the ground, landing hard on his damaged hand, agony rocketing through his ruined fingers. He pulls his hand to his chest, every movement sending needles of pain through his skin and for a few heartbeats it’s all he can do to just keep breathing.

“Now, Dr. Reid!” The man snaps, and Reid jumps.

He can’t put this off, can imagine all too well what it would feel like to be have his fingers severed one by one while he screams himself raw, and then have their hands all over him while they strip him bare. He can’t let that happen.

His uninjured hand shakes as he fumbles with the buttons of his jacket, fingers numb and clumsy. The men stay circled around him, eyes hungry and dark. When all the buttons are finally undone he reluctantly starts to slide the still damp fabric down his arms. He pauses when it comes to getting the cuff over his injured hand, trying and failing to brace himself against the raw burn of squeezing the fabric over his shattered bones, and he cannot suppress the pained moan that claws it’s way up from his throat.

When he finally has the jacket off the man that broke his fingers snatches it away, and Reid watches it go with an ever growing feeling of distress. He forces himself to keep going, peeling his t-shirt off, trying to ignore how cool the air feels against his freshly exposed skin.

His t-shirt is pulled away from him as well, leaving him bare from the waist up. He tries not to think about how shocking small he is in comparison to the rest of these men. Shoes next, laces tight and stubborn, almost impossible to undo with only one working hand. He finally gets them off, forces himself to ignore the slight snort from one of the men at his mismatched socks, pulling them off too and stuffing them in to his sneakers before they are also taken up.

He wants to stop. Doesn’t. 

His fingers trip over the buckle of his belt, easing the leather out of the metal clasp, the sound surprisingly loud in the quiet room. He doesn’t remove the belt from his trousers, goes straight for his fly instead, keeping him momentum going for fear that if he stops he will most certainly not start again. 

He’s aware that he’s shaking again as he works the corduroy down his thighs and over his knees, leaving him in only his boxers. He feels achingly vulnerable like this, stripped down and on display, and it’s only the thought of the ramifications of what will happen if he stops that keeps him going.

The cotton of his shorts feels soft and warm under his fingertips, and he keeps his eyes fixed determinedly on the floor as he pulls off his last layer of defence. As soon as the boxers are off his legs they are whipped away from him, leaving him utterly naked, kneeling on the rough, dirty carpet. Still staring at the floor he can feel the eyes of the men crawling all over him, leering at him, and he can’t help but give in to the urge to cover himself, spine curving over and his palm coming to rest over the apex of his thighs.

“Now, now, Dr. Reid, there’s no point in getting shy now. This is how you’re going to stay from now on. You best get used to it.”

He feels sick. Sick and woozy and overwhelmingly exposed, and he knows, he _knows_ it is only going to get worse. There’s no way out, no where to hide, and he feels the pressure of tears building against the backs of his eyes. 

The leader kneels down in front of him, curls his fingers around the wrist he is using to shield himself and pulls it away, giving an amused huff as he stares down at him, and the humiliation is like fire on his skin. The man doesn’t stare for long, using his grip on Reid’s wrist to tug him roughly back to the wall, and Reid gasps as his other hand is jostled.

As soon as Reid is back to where he was, the man once again wraps his hand around his ankle and cuffs him tightly to the wall, and Reid tries not to flinch when the hand skims up over his leg, stopping just short of his inner thigh.

“Get some rest.” he says, with a smile that’s almost warm. “You’re going to need it.”

He stands, and after one last, lingering look at Reid he and the other men file quietly out of the room. The door slams behind the last one, and there is the unmistakable rattle of a key in a lock. From the other side of the door, the low pulse of music starts up again, and after a few moments Reid can hear the clink of glasses.

His head hurts, cheek and jaw already swollen and sore. His hand throbs constantly, and when he dares to properly look at the damage, he sees that his fingers are bent at crooked angles, the broken bones clearly visible beneath the skin.

_This is only the start. They will keep going. You might spend the rest of your life, naked and hurting, locked in this tiny room._

Outside, there is a loud peal of laughter. 

Reid curls in on himself, and cries.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember like 4 months ago, when I said I'd update by the end of the week.... I'm clearly an awful, horrible liar. I'm so sorry for the delay. I want to say thank you so, so much again to everyone who reads, bookmarks, leaves kudos and leaves comments. I really can't describe how much it means to me.
> 
> I must admit I'm a bit unsure about this chapter, but I have been, for want of a better phrase, pissing around with it for about a week now and I'm just hoping it is okay. Please be aware that this chapter involves some pretty heavy humiliation for Reid, so if you're sensitive to that please take care.

He’s not sure how long he cries. He keeps his split lip caught tightly between his teeth and his hand pressed over his mouth in an effort to stifle his sobs. He doesn’t want them to hear this. He doesn’t want to give them this.

_Best way to not give it to them is to not do it. Stop crying and start thinking._

He can feel himself starting to shiver in the cool air. His hair is still slightly wet from the rain, and the fingers of his good hand are starting to feel numb at the tips. Any movement of his broken fingers is agony, and he has to grit his teeth as he tries to curl in further in on himself, tucking his knees against his chest and wrapping his arms about them.

_You don’t know how long you’re going to be in this position, or what they’re going to do to you next. Use your damn brain before they come back and subject you to anything else._

It seems to take forever until his panic starts to die down enough for him to even start trying to focus on anything beyond his immediate terror and discomfort. He jumps at every time he hears the scrape of a chair or the thud of footsteps from the room outside. More than once he imagines he sees the handle on the door twitch, and it feels like he stops breathing every time it does.

_Do you want to just die here? Think!_

Okay, think. It takes a lot of his strength to sit up, not only because of the pain that he is in, but also because he can still almost feel the weight of their eyes travelling over his naked skin. It’s an effort to uncurl himself enough to look round the room, trying to take in anything that he may have missed before. There’s not much to see.

Four dull, beige walls, mainly in good repair but with a couple of cracks and a patch of damp on the wall to the right of him. No windows, of course. The ceiling is pretty low, with one single bulb hanging from a fixing in the centre. The door is dark brown, made of heavy looking wood, and he already knows that there is at least one lock on it. From behind the door he can still hear the chatter of his captors, but nothing beyond that. No cars honking, or dogs barking or anything to suggest the nearby presence of other people.

HIs eyes travel to the chain currently shackling his leg to the wall. The links are made of thick bands of metal, heavily welded, and fully extended it is only about 2 feet long. The cuff is rigid around his ankle, pressing in just above the bone, and is far too tight to try to squeeze his foot through. The melt loop disappearing in to the wall is similarly unyielding, and steadfastly refuses to budge an inch when he pulls heavily on it.

He can feel his breathing picking up as his eyes sweep the room again, and he can see nothing that can in any way help facilitate his escape. He’s trying hard to ignore the helpless, panicked voice that’s shouting in his head that it’s hopeless, and tries instead to concentrate on how he would normally handle a situation like this if he wasn’t stuck in the middle of it. 

_Think……._

His hair is still damp, as were his clothes when he woke up. He was soaked to the bone when he has taken, the water literally dripping off him, so wherever he is he hasn’t been gone long enough to fully dry out. He very roughly estimates that he’s probably been in their hands for about 5 - 7 hours, but he has no way of knowing how long they were driving for before they ended up here. Have they crossed state lines? Is any of his team aware of his disappearance yet? Unlikely, as he hasn’t been in any real contact with them since the end of their last case and they know it hit him hard, so they won’t find a lack of communication for the next couple of days unusual. It might not be until he doesn’t show up for work that they realise something’s wrong.

He can feel a frown growing as he thinks about that. Not only is this whole ordeal terrifying, it also seems worryingly well-timed. With the exception of holidays to visit his mom, he is rarely away from the office or out of contact with his team for any significant amount of time. The fact that he has been taken during a time when his absence might not be noticed for a matter of days seems planned. He already knows that this wasn’t an unfortunate case of him being randomly snatched from the street, they’ve flat out told him that, but had taking him now just been a matter of opportunity, or did they know he was going to be off work for a few days with no one to know if he disappeared? How long have they been watching him? How much do they already know?

There’s no way to know these things yet, but it doesn’t stop the shaky creep of nausea as the thoughts swirl round his head. He’s determined not to say a word about his team to them, but he holds no illusions about the probability that these men may murder him at his refusal to give them the details they want. Two days is plenty enough time to tortuously kill him.

He may well be dead before his team even realise he’s missing.

********************************

It’s hours before anyone comes back in to the room, and Reid tenses when the lock rattles and the door swings open, hitting off the wall behind it with a solid bump. The guy that broke his fingers stands in the doorway, holding a small plate and a pint glass of clear liquid.

The door smacks shut as the guy kicks it closed behind him, and he grins when Reid flinches away from the sound. He crosses the room in unhurried strides, stopping only to place the glass on the floor a few feet from Reid. His eyes travel over Reid’s exposed skin, lingering on his chest and thighs, which Reid keeps tucked tightly against himself in an effort keep himself as covered as possible. 

“Got a little something for the good doctor.” he says, still leering.

Reid says nothing, and the guy lowers the plate to show a couple of pieces of toast, before lifting it back up out of Reid’s reach. Not that he minds, he has absolutely no urge to eat or drink anything these men bring to him.

“You must be pretty hungry by now,” he says, with a hard smile. “not to mention thirsty. Ask nicely for it, and I’ll let you have it.”

Reid keeps quiet, and the man’s eyes darken. He lifts one foot and brings the heel of it to press against Reid’s broken fingers, where he is cradling them against his chest. Reid groans as the man increases the pressure, feeling the bones shift painfully, and without thinking his other hand comes up in an attempt to push the man away. The man snorts, lifting his foot slightly and then snapping it forwards against his damaged fingers and Reid yelps.

“Dr. Reid, I suggest you take advantage of my kind offer while I’m still inclined to let you have it. Ask nicely for it.”

He keeps the painful pressure of his boot against Reid, and as much as he does not want to touch that plate or glass, he suspects that maybe it’s time to start picking his battles. 

“Please may I have the food?” he croaks, and then yelps again when another kick is delivered to his throbbing hand.

“I think you can do better than that.” The man murmurs, and his free hand drops with apparent nonchalance to rest on his belt.

Reid falters, skin prickling all over. He has a sudden, awful premonition of just what ‘asking nicely’ might entail.

“Say pretty please.” the man urges.

“Pre..” he stutters, watching as the man’s thumb starts to rub against the tarnished buckle. Another kick to his hand and he grunts. “Pretty please.”

“Say pretty please, I really want it.” The man says, grinning down at him, and his fingers seem to tug the leather down a little.

“I…” He feels sick.

“Say it.” and this time there’s no mistaking the tug down, as the belt drags his jeans down a couple of centimetres and small strip of flesh momentarily appears below the hem of his shirt.

“Pretty please, I really want it.” he pushes out, even though it feels like his throat is closing up.

“Very good, Dr Reid.” The man says, very softly. 

He hands the plate down and steps away, and for a second Reid’s relief is so strong his head swims. The man stands looking at him, and Reid really doesn’t want to see what will happen if he refuses to eat, so he slowly raises the fist piece of toast to his mouth, glancing over it as he does. He can’t see anything immediately dangerous about it, it looks dry and slightly burnt, but not threatening. It goes down like cardboard, but he can’t detect anything unsavoury in the taste of it, so he forces himself to finish both pieces as fast as he can.

When he’s done the man takes the plate away from him and hands him the pint glass, and Reid tries to surreptitiously sniff it as he brings it to his lips. Smells like water, and tastes like water when he tips some in to his mouth. He’s half expecting it to start burning like acid, or for him to start vomiting uncontrollably, but nothing happens after the first few mouthfuls, so he drinks the rest of the glass almost eagerly. It occurs to him that he really had been thirsty.

The man takes the glass as soon as it is empty, and strides from the room taking it and the plate with him, the door swinging shut behind him. Reid has about 5 seconds to wonder if he is to be left alone again, when he hears the whoosh of a tap going on, and the man returns with the pint glass refiled, this time dragging a chair along with him.

He hands the glass off to Reid, places the chair a few feet away and settles heavily down. There’s a nasty smirk tugging at his lips, and Reid feels another wave of apprehension.

“Drink the water.’ he demands. “All of it.”

Reid eyes the glass warily. Was there something in the water after all? If there is, he doubts that the aim is to kill him, but that it hardly a comforting thought. 

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

He wants to throw the glass away. He wants to pitch it at the wall and let it shatter. For a second his brain lights up with the idea of smashing the glass and trying to use one of the shards to attack his captor, but the idea fizzles out almost as soon as it occurs. Even if he did manage to do some damage to the man, he still wouldn’t be able get out of the shackle, and there’d be the other guys to deal with. He doesn’t want to think about what torture they would inflict upon him if he maimed or killed one of their own. It’s not work the risk. Not yet, anyway.

The guy’s expression is getting stonier and stonier, and at this point he realises that he can either just drink the water, or he can incur the wrath of the man, possibly get more parts of himself broken, and then still have to drink the water. Reid fumbles the glass unwillingly to his lips, and gulps down the water as fast as he can.

“Very good.” the man says, watching until Reid has finished the whole of the glass.

He gets up momentarily to collect the glass again, taking it back out in to the other room, then comes back in an settles once again on the chair. Reid waits for his next move, but the man simply grins unpleasantly at him once more, before pulling his phone out of his pocket and fixing his gaze on the screen.

Reid waits.

Nothing happens. He still feels sick, but the feeling doesn’t get any worse as the minutes trickle by. His pulse thunders in his ears, and his heart still feels like it may crack his ribs with the force that it is pounding, but there’s no new symptoms. No dizziness, not distortion of vision, no pain, no difficulty in breathing. Nothing.

It feels like a very long time that they sit there, the man avidly engrossed in his phone while Reid waits in sickly apprehension of what’s going to happen to him next. The man will occasionally shift slightly in his chair, the wood groaning beneath the weight of him. There’s an occasional huff of laughter when he sees something that apparently amuses him, but other than that there’s nothing but silence as the clock ticks on.

Nothing happens for such a long time that Reid is starting to think that the guy has simply been assigned the task of watching him, rather than that he’s waiting for anything to happen in specific. He’s still in a lot of pain from his hand and his face, and the cold chill in the room feels like it’s starting to sink in to his bones, but he doesn’t seem to be in any further immediate danger.

He tries to settle as best he can, and turn his brain away from his panicking and on to the man. He’s about mid-thirties, looks close to six foot and just one of his arms probably weighs more than Reid’s whole body. He has tanned skin with short, sandy hair, and his nose looks as though it his been broken before and not properly reset. A scar runs along his right bicep, starting from under the hemline of his t-shirt, and ending about 2 inches below the elbow. It’s long healed, but messy, clearly the result of violence.

He slouches in his chair, thighs spread, utterly confident. He doesn’t raise his eyes from his phone, but still Reid tries to keep his own glances surreptitious, he doesn’t want to provoke an unwanted reaction by being caught staring. Reid wants to concentrate on on attempting to build a profile, but he’s exhausted, hurting and soon he can feel a pressure building in his abdomen that tells him he will need a bathroom soon.

He doesn’t know what to do about that. He can’t imagine that this man will be particularly amenable to letting Reid use the facilities, and so Reid keeps quiet until the feeling progresses from a dull discomfort, to a heavy fullness. He has no choice.

“I….” he begins, and the man drags his eyes finally away from his phone to fix Reid with a bored stare. Reid remembers the man’s insistence that he ask nicely for the food, so he says. “Please may I use a restroom?”

The man smiles then, leaning forwards until his forearms rest against his knees. “Why?”

An utterly stupid question, Reid thinks but says. “I have to….. to go.”

“Go do what?” he asks, clearly enjoying dragging this out and relishing in Reid’s discomfort.

He doesn’t want to play this man’s game, doesn’t want to indulge him in this, but he has little choice. This isn’t going to just go away.

“I need to relieve myself.” He bites out, and the man’s eyebrow quirks, eyes travelling down Reid’s chest, who hastily amends. “I need to urinate.”

The man looks positively excited now. ‘Go right ahead then.”

Reid feels his jaw tense. “What?”

“I said go right ahead.” The man murmurs darkly.

He can’t do that. He _can’t._

He considers if it would be worth begging. He realises belatedly that this is probably what the man has been waiting for, the reason he was so insistent on him drinking the water and why he’s sat waiting with him this whole time. He wonders which would feel most degrading; urinating in front of this smug, cruel man or playing right in to his urges and pleading to be allowed to use a bathroom. 

That’s not a hard decision to make, really.

“Please.” He whispers. “Please let me go to the restroom.”

The man seems to shiver a little at that, eyes bright and alive. “You can go ahead and…. ah, _relieve_ yourself any time you want.”

“I can’t…..” Reid feels like he might start sobbing. “Please… I can’t.”

The man shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He mutters, and leans back in his chair, eyes sliding once again to his phone.

It’s clear that trying to reason with the man is going to get him nowhere, and Reid tries desperately to think of his options. There aren’t any really. He’s chained to a wall, with no way of getting loose and even if there was a way to get out of the shackle, he has no way to get to the door. It’s like a punch to the chest when he realises that this is going to happen and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He ignores it as long as he can. Past the point where the fullness in his bladder edges past uncomfortable and becomes down right painful. He tries to focus on his breathing when his gut starts cramping, refusing to let the tears gathering in his eyes fall. He leaves it as long as he possibly can, until he has no option but to cede defeat.

“Please can I have something to…..” his voice trails off, and he has to clear his throat. “A glass or…..”

The man looks at back at Reid, and his smile is like a shark. He says nothing, just watching him with dark, expectant eyes. He’s going to give Reid nothing, that much is painfully obvious, and Reid has to shift his already unbearable humiliation at the idea of pissing in front of this man to include having to do it on the floor, like some kind of animal.

He averts his eyes again, and tries to wait. Wait for a miracle, or an intervention or anything…. anything to get him out of this, but of course nothing comes. He maybe lasts five more minutes before he physically can no longer hold it in.

He reluctantly shuffles himself on his knees until the chain binding him to the wall is stretched taut, and the cuff pulls painfully at his ankle. He closes his eyes as he wraps his uninjured hand around himself, fully aware of the man’s gaze lingering filthily over him, and clenches his jaw as he hears the first trickle of urine hit the dirty carpet.

The man laughs, and Reid feels the bright flush of shame spreading over his skin. The sound of his urine spattering against the floor humiliatingly loud, as is the sound of his own ragged breathing. He keeps his eyes squeezed tightly shut until he hears movement, and his gaze snaps to the man who is now standing, pointing his phone directly at Reid.

The impact of his embarrassment is so sharp that for a second Reid wonders if it will render him unconscious. It does no such thing of course, but he can’t stop a distressed whinge working itself free of his throat when the man steps forward, aiming the lens of his phone right between Reid’s legs. He moans again, trying to bow forwards in a feeble attempt to cover himself, to spare himself this further indignity. The man snorts, and Reid clamps his eyes tightly shut again when the man tangles his fingers in Reid’s hair, dragging his head back and forcing his face in to full view of the camera.

They stay like that until Reid has finished emptying his bladder, and the stream peters fully out. He doesn’t open his eyes as the man steps away, sliding his fingers from Reid’s hair, caressing his scalp almost tenderly as he does so.

“Thank you Dr. Reid.” he says, and Reid can hear the triumph in his voice. “I’m sure this video will come in most useful to us.”

With that the man walks away, and Reid hears the scrape of the chair as it is picked up and dragged outside. The door snaps shut, and he hears the sound of the lock, and another very faint click. When he dares to open his eyes it becomes apparent that it was the lights being turned out, as he is faced with total darkness.

On shaky knees he crawls back along the wall, dragging himself as far away as he can from the foul smelling puddle he’s left on the floor. Again and again he pictures the phone, pointing directly down between his thighs, undoubtedly showing everything, and his embarrassment surges so strongly that he can almost taste it. He can’t bare to think what that video will be used for or who will see it. 

He can’t bare it.


End file.
